


Boundaries

by taichara



Category: Saint Seiya: The Lost Canvas
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-01 08:07:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4012147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taichara/pseuds/taichara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's always something, or someone, that you wish weren't so far away.  It's worse when that thing -- or person -- is right there in front of you.</p>
<p>For Shion, that shining thing is more obvious than he realizes.   For Albafica ... who can say?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boundaries

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: _the sparkle of water on skin_

_I thought that meeting would never end._

A soft chime of golden Cloth against ancient stone echoed Shion's every step as he made his way down the worn staircases of Sanctuary's holy mountain. Aries' yoke of horns weighed heavy across his shoulders, chafing slightly; a rough patch in the repair work, something he should have noticed long ago ...

_Except for the fact that I've spent my time in nothing but meeting with the Holy Father and contending with possible student assignments._

_And attempting not to steam to death inside my own Cloth. There is that._

Sanctuary in high summer could be pitiless, and this year was promising to be hotter than most. One more thing to contend with, then. Stifling a sigh, Shion continued step after measured step, took the curve in the stairs that began the Path of the Twelve Temples -- and heard the splash, the play of water.

Blinking rapidly, he pivoted, Cloth chiming as he scanned the mountainside. Where was that coming from ...

_... Oh._

_Oh._

_There_ was the source, half-way down to the first plateau in the Path. More stairs, a short and sloping arc, the false clouds and mist of water being whirled at a speed only a Saint could comfortably manage ... and the roses, beyond their warning hedge of long-thorned briars, that carpeted the tiny vale cradling the Temple of the Fishes. 

Stripped to the waist, misty droplet clinging to his bare skin, beading in water-pale hair, Pisces Albafica paused in his work, shook his head -- a flurry of liquid casting tiny rainbows -- and, gathering up the situlae scattered at his feet, strode towards the garden's aqueduct to refill them and begin again. 

Eyes on the Pisces Saint, Shion's progress slowed to a snail's pace as Albafica went through the process again; filling the situlae with water, carrying them to some central point of the garden, whirling the containers until the precious liquid flew free and continuing the motion to turn the water to a misty spray from the sheer force of his strikes on empty air. 

It was efficient, and ingenious ... but not what held Shion's attention. Oh no. Not with that ... spectacle in front of him, and all after that misery of a conflict Albafica suffered through at the hands of his master's brother. 

Shion wanted -- he just wanted to know all was well. That was all.

So entranced was he that he never noticed he'd strayed right to the thorn-hedge's border until --

"Am I that fascinating, Aries?

"Do _not_ come in here. You know -- I won't be responsible if you enter this garden. You know what I'll do."

Quiet, murmured, the words cut like a thorn nonetheless. Shion startled, Cloth chiming as he stumbled to a halt, meeting the wary, shuttered pale eyes with difficulty.

"... I know, Albafica. I know. I was ..."

"Taking a miserable risk, Shion. Any water that runs from me onto the garden, or into the air --"

That again. Shion's eyes flickered closed, a fraction of a heartbeat. He knew, he _knew_ he could, if all else failed, use his psychokinesis as a barrier against his flesh if it came to that.

_I don't want it to come to that. I wish it didn't have to._

_I refuse to believe it would have to._

"I know, and I apologise. But you've been out here so long already, and after Dryad ..."

"Just how long _have_ you been watching me?"

"Ah ..."

Floundering for an answer, his gaze fell on the scarring tracing fresh pale tracks, still unfaded, across Albafica's shoulder and down his arm, bunching over the tensed muscles, outlined silver with trailing droplets. And Albafica had refused to let him near, let him tend that wound the Spectres inflicted.

He tilted his head, slowly, almost challengingly.

"Not that long; not long enough to cause any trouble, I'd imagine."

A faint, unreadable little smile played across Albafica's face; or did he imagine it?

"... Stay at the hedge, then, and we can talk."


End file.
